Amanda 'pants' Murphy won the competition I set last week by decoding a secret message I left in a blog post - yay! well done Murphy - The prize was a guest blog post, here is that post, which, btw is top quality, you should read it, definitely, before she cuts you up into small pieces and uses you to feed her dogs . . .
I'm a dick dolly, name of Bachelor Kay Dickles. That's Kay as in short for Katherine as in short for Katherine Margaret Molly Hieronymus Dickles, esquire. I might've taken that too far. X the Hieronymus and the esquire, add a P.I. and that's more like it, bub. I might have been an esquire or bounty hunter if I'd had the muscle or the cock (sure attitude). As it is, I fell into this business the hard way. Making drunken promises I had to keep to friends who found themselves between various and sundry rocks and hard places. Luckily, the friends had cash and could pay me for my services early on, making me a professional sneak and do-gooder.
I'd take a picture of Mary's husband cheating on her with some Haitian hooker or whore, depending. I'd help out Nancy when her deadbeat baby daddy took off and I'd get him back on the grid. Wives and their no-good, cheating, town-skipping, dog-and-pony-gambling, whore-hoarding, toilet-seat-not-down-putting, lipstick collard, limp dick dirty dog husbands; that was my bread and butter to start. Those friends are all out of town and out of commission now. Women who get in tight spots don't often get out, even friends of mine. One after the other, they left to start over in Oregon or Montana or Canada, worse came to worse. I've still got my true friends near at hand: Sherry and Bloody Mary.
You can call me a private eye, A No-Shit-Sherlock, A Trench Coat Mafiosa, A Rockford Philly, Private Dickless, an Op, Sister Mary Shamus, the Grande Dame of Sleuth, a Snooper, Peeper, or Francis Gum Shoe. Just don't call me Veronica Mars unless you want the kind of sock in the face your wife can't darn.
It was the kind of day that made grown men want to run through sprinklers in their business suits when this action doll tracked his mud and female problems into my office. I'd been eyeing the pool in the courtyard of the Coronet Motel. I made my home away from home on El Camino Real, saddled up to a seedy motel that offered not only the occasional dip in the summertime when the pool gate was left unlocked but also access to the kind of clientele who might not want to go to the bulls for their domestic disturbances. The kind of clientele with private dickless needs.
This hombre was not apropos of my regular business. He looked like he had an axe to grind and fancied to use me to grind it. He slammed my office door behind him, tossed a wad of cash my way and asked, "You a dyke?"
"As far as you're concerned I am," I quipped. As soon as I'd said it, I knew it was a lie. This palooka could have me on my back, ankles up, with only a wink and a smile. I'd have to be careful and keep my knees at attention around this slick soldier. The clients who can see I'm a softy tend to pay well up front but a lot less in the end. This number clearly had the cash. He was lousy with lettuce and it was up to me to get as much of it out of him as I could before our dealings were through.
I wished myself luck, palmed the dough, and queried, "What's your beef, sailor?"